


Roche-l'Abeille

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [7]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: F/M, Partner Betrayal, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1633, Roche-l'Abeille. The particulars of the adventure of Marie Michon, from Athos point of view.</p><p>DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain. This is a work of fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1633

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: The affair of Roche l’Abeille (Chapter 20, Twenty years after) has always been seen as a “one night stand” between consenting adults. Because rape is ok when is female on male, isn’t it? I beg to differ with this interpretations, since Marie Michon’s intention was to “damn an abbe”. Rape is defined by the lack of consent in one of the parts involved.  
> This fan fiction work was influed by La jeunesse, where it said “écoutez : le nouveau pasteur est arrivé au château ce matin; c'est un de mes compagnons d'enfance... Il sait mon amour pour vous; il consent à bénir notre union...”

_Tearless grief bleeds inwardly.  
~ Christian Nevell Bovee_

I used to think that only two women had made something good for the world: Mary, because she gave birth to Jesus; and my mother, because she had me... And some days, I was not so sure about _Madame la Comtesse_.

***

It was October of 1633, the letter came and I was asked to leave Paris to fulfill my family’s request that roundly consist in present my person to certify I am indeed alive, as my _lettre de réhabilitation_ should have informed them. I had to travel for I am alive, to my chagrin and despite my best efforts against it. Grimaud obeyed promptly when I ordered him to pack some clothes, but he was less eager when I informed him our destination. He never liked Languedoc, I always assumed that he fear that there was a pyre waiting for him.

Worse for him.

D'Artagnan bid me his farewell and ran to his obligations, Grimaud followed my lead with a gloom expression and I spurred my horse to finish this damned affair as soon as possible. Before me there was only a long, dirty road and a family reunion that I had delayed long enough. My only consolation was that the worst of them was beheaded the year before. I was ordered to make haste, that journey should take me no more than five days.

The first night we stopped at the outskirts of Chartres, I was strangely tired, my body was aching but I only made twenty leagues that day. Grimaud took care of the horses, I did not need to ask him to, and he just did it. I did not care... All I cared about was to find a place to rest and sleep off the five bottles I drank that day while on horseback. I did not remember how I find a bed, I only know that I woke up next morning with my valet’s worried person over me, he had been placing wet cold towels over my brow, he signaled some nonsense about “no travel”. I hit the fool, a quick jab, almost effortless. He just accepted it and gathered himself, but his eyes told me that I was committing an idiocy. I just bellowed “my horse!” and he went out.

Later, when we were riding to Châteauroux, I lost track of the time, I was feeling dizzy and refused to drink from the bottle that Grimaud offered me. It was either drinking water ― I did not like it— or more wine, and I could not stomach it at that moment. Maybe Grimaud was right I was not fit to ride, but I did not want him to know he had reason on his side. If I let him, he would smother me with his cares. I tried not to think and keep riding. Next time I regained conscience of my surroundings, I found myself at the doors of some inn with an empty bottle in my hand, but I give it not a second thought. I need to rest, badly. Instead of sending Grimaud to the stables, I ordered him to hold me while I slept. He misunderstood my order because he let his hands roam over my body; he had to be in need, but I felt far from my prime; nothing had aroused me in years, nor his devoted hands nor his expert mouth. Nothing worked since that night in Armentieres...

“Keep your hands to yourself!” I ordered him with a growl.

He just hugged me, I could feel his concern, and I knew positively that is not provoked for the stake. I tried to sleep though my blood pounded my temples with a demolishing force.

Next morning, I was feeling better, and, by the reaction of Grimaud, I suspected I was in better condition. We mount and took our road to Limoges, saddlebags full of food and wine, for we must not make a stop if we were to be at Toulouse by the 12th. By Argeton-sur-Creuse I realized that I was not fine, I started to feel a stabbing pain on my chest, but grasped the nettle and keep going. I was getting wise in my old age, and I knew I must obey my family now or the consequences could be catastrophic. I hung my head and concentrated in keeping myself on the saddle. I ceased to see the road ahead, so the next time I paid attention was when my horse stopped. I raised my head and two things strike me odd: First, night was approaching rapidly, and second that Grimaud’s eyes were judging me. He was all bundled up in his manteau and seemed dead tired.

“What?” I spat, I comprehended that my horse had halted because my valet's horse was in front of him.

Grimaud made a signal to make me check the surroundings. I did it. The sky was overcast, we are surrounded with forest, and I had no idea on where we were. I interrogate him with a glance, he stated, always by signs that he did not know, he just tailed me. A chilling draft of wind hit my face, it was cold for him, and he was my responsibility, we had to find some shelter.

“Limoges?” inquired trying to find our way around. That stabbing pain was getting worse.

He signaled ‘ten leagues’, I nodded and tried to continue our way but he did not budge. “Behind”, he clarified.

“We did thirty leagues in ONE DAY?”

He nodded. I felt no tiredness, nor hungry, nor cold, just that pain in my chest, but he had to be exhausted. He was not young anymore.

“Next town”, I promise and tried to hide the pain.

***

Next town was a mud soaked village, just a bunch of shacks, the priest’s house and a church. That would be enough; I signaled the priest house and Grimaud nodded. I alighted and knocked the door. There was some rustling, the door was open and I see a familiar face, a little older than the last time I saw it, but it was still recognizable. That was a face that belonged to happier times. I had to be mistaken, I had to be hallucinating.

“God give you a good night, _M. le Comte_ ”, the priest greeted me and that voice had recognition and kindness.

“Jacques?”

Jacques was my friend, one of the selected youngsters that my father allowed as my companions; and when he took the orders, he was my confessor; and when I decided to ruin my life, he was the priest that married me. What is he doing in this poor village?

“Of course... when I fell, you shared my fall.” I whispered and a sudden pang of guilt racked me. I never thought of him and what my foolishness had made of his fortune and his career. “I am sorry...”

“Don’t be a moron”, he said and made me enter with a smile on his face. He had read my face like when we were kids. “I had to marry you just to stop hearing your name in the young peasant confessions!”

Later, while Grimaud took care of the horses, he persuaded me to confess. I still did not know how he accomplished that but he could always made me feel regrets and bring me to a confessional state, so I knelt and confess my sins: her murder, her execution, my dark self-destructive streak, the lot of murdered men, my satisfaction on the hands of my valet and so on... He was suitably shocked, and he gave me his reluctant absolution.

As he was pondering what atonement would be enough for my crimes, a peasant came and begged Jacques to come with him, one of his flock need him in his last moments.

He left me his house, his bed and his dinner, but I was not hungry. I called Grimaud and bid him to eat, while I took possession of the chamber, worn out in body and soul. I let my dirty, smelly clothes to fell on the floor, and naked, I used the washbasin to rub the mud from my abused body. I did not realize until his very moment how bad I smell, I heard Grimaud picking my clothes, as he usually do, with the same noise and the same sights. Then, like many other nights, he approached me and caressed my shoulders, kissed my nape; I knew he was trying to rekindle the fire; he never lost hope on me... He loved me still.

"No", I said, I was not sure if I was remorseful or just so damned tired. But I was certain that, even when the air was cold, I felt myself hot. "Not here, not now..."

Rejection seemed to emanate from him, but he obeyed me and left me alone once he placed clean clothes next to the foot-board. I finished my toilet. I was still hot. I saw the clean shirt but I could not muster strength to done it, I just lay bare naked in great need of rest.

I made a half-hearted pray, just because my father never let me sleep if I did not recite them. I left the lamp alight, as I used to do in a strange surroundings. I placed my sword and my knife next to the bed and my pistols beneath the pillow. The sheets were cold and they feel delightful over my body. Maybe, if that cathartic ritual served me of something, I could sleep soundly tonight, even with that pain in my chest. Then a knock at the door woke me up.

"What now...?" I growled but I remembered that I as at Jacques's home. "Come in!"

A young noble man entered the next room, a servant behind him; he put his head in the bedroom. He babbled something about hospitality. I was about to send him off in the rudest way possible, but I was a guest myself.

"Willingly, my young cavalier," I said, just as Jacques could do, due to Christian charity and no just good manners "if you will be content with the remains of my supper and with half my chamber."

"Thank you, _monsieur le cure_ , I accept." he said among young girly giggles. These little young peacocks never change.

"Sup, then, and make as little noise as possible," I replied and turned around, determined to turn the lamp off "for I, too, have been on the go all day and shall not be sorry to sleep to-night."

Soon, even with pain, even with company, I was asleep...

***

Half awaken, I grope for the sheets; I was cold. I felt a hand that trails its way toward my lower abdomen and I tried to swat it, I was not thinking, maybe I thought it was Grimaud's, I was not sure. I heard a giggle and then a humid trail followed the path that that hand has traced. That torn me from Morpheus' realm and made me open my eyes.

I regretted it, abysmally.

Even in the shadows I could recognize her long blond hair, her exuberant body, her expert touch... no other woman has touched me like that, some men did, but no other woman...

She was next to me, Ana was in the same bed _next to me_ , and the very thought of this crippled me. I stayed there almost choking: I sent her to hell, not once, but _twice_! And she had found a way to meet me and demand me my marital duties...

She giggled again and used her nails on my skin, they pierced my nipples, sending waves of pain thought my whole body, long steely nails ripped my hide as she brought them down and her teeth replace them on my chest, her saliva scalded me as it were lava. She climbed over me and her mass, delicate as it could be, pinned me to the mattress.

"Oh, Lord, no..." I whispered, hoping with all my being that this was a nightmare. I hoped against all hopes, because I could feel the pain on my chest.

She just laughed and closed her little predatory fangs in my flesh, her hair fell over my face, it smelled fresh, something floral and very feminine, and it was suffocating me. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hit her, but my treacherous body only stirred to shame me more: she had achieved to lift something that I believed dead long ago, something that Grimaud hungered for years, and it was so hard that almost feel like a knife buried in my gut.

"O, you unchaste one" she accused me when she noticed that unruly part of my body and she laughed. "You did not read your Saint Ambroise!"

That fact did not deter her from close her hand as an iron grip around it, her hard touch braised me; I almost smelled charred flesh. I groaned, and she slides over my body, long humid tongue leaving its wet, noxious signal over me. I felt nausea. She opened her mouth, all filled with fire and molten brimstone, and lick me with a tongue that felt like lashes over the sensitive head of my member and moaned with pain, but she reacted as if they were lustful cries. Her free hand closed itself over my sack and her sharp nails graze the sensitive spot behind it.

Inside I was begging for this ordeal to be over, but I could not find my voice, every time I draw air, the pain in my chest increased.

Then, suddenly, she discontinued her attentions to my body, and I almost whispered a prayer, because someone had heard my pleas, when I felt her weight crushing down my hips as my cock slide into the open furnace between her legs, so hot inside and sickling damp. I was about to let out a cry when she assaulted my mouth with hers, her long tongue probed my gums and slide over mine; throttling me more effectively than any dick I had sucked.

She took my hands and placed them on her meat bags, those were firms but unbearable hot and I had no escape possible. Gratefully, she did not need me to knead them, for she was so amused in grind my hips to achieve her satisfaction. I could feel her humidity dripping over myself and I find it repulsive. She raised her head to moan her pleasure and I took a long mouthful of air that tasted as smoke and musk, a pained moan escaped from my lips and then she whispered something in my ear that make me quiver head to toes and technically that could pass for an orgasm.

"Well, dear, I hope you like hell," said my inferno-sent wife "because I'll be there too"

As soon as she detached from me I crawled out the bed, I could not stand a second more next to her. I heard her laugh, but I did not care, not at that moment. I took my knife with me and recoiled onto a corner, waiting for her to disappear in a cloud of foul smelling sulfur. That did not happen; instead she turned on the bed and went to sleep. I watched her, wary, my body trembled in that cold corner.

I rested my head on the wall and waited.

***

As dawn approached I started to hear that grave voice, that voice always speaks me in a bass tone. I knew that voice since the day I was born and I always heed it because if I decided not to, huge amounts of pain were on the way.

_Kill her... kill her NOW..._

"But I just confessed..." I protested and I knew that did not make sense: also I just fornicated.

_She laid her hand on you and you will suffer her to live?_

"I did not want her to..." I whispered but that voice insisted.

_That is why you have to kill her, imbecile!_

“She is a succubus, pa...” I grumbled. And yes, I was on the verge of insanity, thank you.

_Kill her, you stupid, ungrateful child..._

I could be called almost everything safe two names: ungrateful is one of those.

I tried to rise to my feet but my ass went numb, it took me a couple of tries to stand up. I approached to the bed, clutching that knife for dear life, while I still hearing that maddening order in my head and that pain on my chest became sharper. I had to cut her throat, it would be a messy business but I knew I was a lousy hangman and if I had to touch her to strangle her I would lost the last tatters of my sanity. I raised that knife...

She rolled over, still asleep and I did not recognize her. She was not Ana...

_Kill her!_

I began to sweat, water was pouring from every pore of my skin and I realized that I had been running a fever.

I was delirious.

I was about to kill a strange woman!

I had to run from there as quick as I could before that voice could seize me again. I dressed myself as if the clarion call was sounding: hose, breeches, boots, shirt and fuck the doublet; sword, knife, pistols, and off I went, as silently as I could but that was the kind of woman that would sleep through a parade.

I closed the door behind me and was starting to felt safer when I heard a sight that startled me. Her follower was slept in a chair and when I saw her I got scared out of my wits. It could not be―that stroke of hard luck could not be any worse. I had to be categorical. I approached and double check her. I hold tight the blasphemy I was about to howl. Of course, my bad luck is just that damnable.

It was Kitty.

I was not about to kill a strange woman. I was about to kill Madame de Chevreuse!

I got out.

***

Grimaud was on the saddle, my horse was ready. He was glassy-eyed, but I had not enough sense to ask about it. I jump to the saddle and spurred the beast, not because I was expected at Toulouse, but because I need to put some distance and try to collect my wits.

While I drove my horse I tried to rationalize the whole night: I was ill, she was horny and my late wife was still very dead, Lord be praised. I did not ask for it, but it still happened. If she got with child it is her trouble... Then, I closed my eyes and I saw her again, smiling at me "dear, I hope you like hell..." I had to stop my horse and barely alighted before I threw up and that action just sent a sharp flare of pain in my chest.

There's no point, no matters how I put it: I banged my dead wife last night, and she came just to announce me that no confession could open me the Heaven's gate.

God has forsaken me.

I put up my head and I noticed three things at the same time: Grimaud had not alighted, he had not hurried himself to aid me, and he was drinking. I signaled the bottle, he knows that I was asking why. He signaled that he was celebrating.

"Is there anything to celebrate, you scoundrel?" I reclaimed, I wanted vent my ill-humor on somebody, and he was my designed scapegoat.

“Resurrection of the flesh”

The icing on the cake... that's all I needed, of course! He knew about my last night misadventure—maybe he saw it―and now he was jealous.

"And what is it to you, stupid?" I demanded, because I was the master, at least I was _his_ master.

He just shrugged. He was determined to not help me.

I sighed.

I was still expected at Toulouse.

 


	2. 1634

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Dumas tradition: One Year After.

Next year was hell on Earth, but no more than my life has been since she ruined it.

The only exceptional episode was that pleurisy that had been developing inside me and led to my fall from grace. It was bad. That disease was unattended for more than a month, since Grimaud had been angry at me and he let me pretty much by my own ways and I was not specially predisposed to take care of myself. Grimaud, that was mad by envy at Roche-l’Abeille, was the first person I saw when I recovered my senses and he was ripped to shreds at the mere consideration of my death, and I was amused that that damned adventure cracked him more than war and politics. I suspected that he was feeling powerless.

The nightmares returned, worse than before. There were nights when I woke up in the middle of the night all covered in cold sweat, and felling like I had to scream but there was no wind in my lungs to do it. Some nights, Grimaud also woke up and he climbed to my bed to embrace me and rock me as he could do to a little boy. I understood that he was trying to soothe me, but, while I allowed him to proceed, I could not comprehend if there was something to be appeased. The facts were simple: I was a man, she was a woman. Except for the fever induced delirium, what we did was the same thing I did with many women before her. Unpleasant as it could be for that nightmarish vision, it did not hurt me, nor maimed me, nor crippled me, but I was feeling restless.

I inherited Bragelonne and that was the perfect justification to leave my duty at the musketeers; the truth was that I needed some time to lick this new wound and country life seemed a blessing. Grimaud followed me, my sickness has mollified his green-eyed side but he was not joyful about my absence of sex drive; he was a simple Breton, he could not understand that I had other pleasures than a quick screw.

Bragelonne was a small mansion, and it was in want of several modifications and renewals. It was just what I need: something to occupy my mind with. I took charge of all the affairs that came with a new possession, and spend long day at the saddle determining what my assets were. It was refreshing, it was constructive, but it did not help my distraught condition.

Then, one morning, while I pour cold well water over my head, I understood what was happening to me. I get restless if I did not put an end what I was doing. That was all. I had to visit Jacques and ask him my atonement, due to he had taken his leave from me with the same speed I escaped from his house the morning after, and the ritual was not complete. Maybe it was superstition, but it was as good guess as any. I get dressed, saddled my horse and went to Roche-l’Abeille.

Jacques did not give me a warm welcome this time, but I was not expecting one if he found a naked woman in his bed. I did not realize until that moment that one whole year had passed, and I could not comprehend why he was so furious.

"I believe in you!” he said, "I believe that you had made a complete contrition! But sin carries its own penance..." and he made me enter his chamber, and signaled a bundle of linen that was laid there and then he stamped a piece of paper in my chest.

I took the piece of paper and read: "11 October, 1633." I recognized the handwriting. Me and my rotten luck! It took me every ounce of my willpower to chew back the stream of colorful epithets that I was about to shout.

Jacques was waiting for an explanation. What could I said him? That _she raped me?!_ I never admit that, not to him, not to Grimaud, not to herself. I was having hard time enough to come to terms with the idea. Besides, he would never believe it: he was the confessor of my wildest years. I hung my head; I could not accept that she laid her hands on me.

"Well, you caught me." I admitted and placed that damned piece of paper inside my doublet. "Don't ask her name."

"But I will ask what you are going to do with the baby."

“I don't care about that bast...!" I started to exclaim when he smacked me with a force I did not suspect he had.

"Do not do unto others what you do not want others do unto you!" he shouted to my face.

How did I forget that he knew me better than most? That was the second name I did not let anyone call me.

"I will not call the baby that, but I am not cut to be a father!"

"And you did not have vocation for marriage."

There is no one more obnoxious than a priest with good memory, I assure you.

"What do you want from me?" I asked at the end of my patience.

"You begot him, you will raise him" he said with an even voice. "That's it, if you are still interested on your eternal soul."

That was blackmail! He was trying to trade my rights to the sacraments and burden me with that... unwanted creature. I was about to leave, and he could shove his exoneration where sun do not shine when the last piece of information settled in the bottom of my mind.

"Is a he? I mean, is that baby a _BOY_?"


End file.
